


Machine Language

by annchi



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:31:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annchi/pseuds/annchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clearly, he thought, the machine was evil. It had to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Machine Language

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this story was _burns_.

Reese saw it too late, what was about to happen, and from a distance that made it impossible to get there in time.

"I thought I told you to let me handle this," he said to Finch after he had dealt with the immediate danger and was focused on the aftermath. Namely, that Finch had been hurt. He hated this. So much.

"I thought it would be fine," Finch said, and flinched when Reese swabbed antibiotic cream over one of his wounds. "I mean, how hard could it be, really? You do it every day, sometimes twice."

Reese frowned. It was hard enough to let Finch out of his sight after the nightmare of his abduction last year, but it would be worse for both of them if he felt he couldn't leave the man on his own long enough for Reese to do his job.

"No," he said. "We talked about this, Harold." 

Finch sighed and looked down at his shoes like an obstinate child. "Yes, yes." 

"Never when I'm not around." He gripped Finch by the elbow and shook him gently. "Never."

"What, do you want me to say it back to you?" 

Reese suppressed a smirk. Part of him loved it when Finch got pissy, but this was serious. 

"If it will help you to remember, then yes."

Finch muttered something under his breath about employees showing proper respect, then winced again when Reese applied pressure to wrap a bandage securely around his hand. Reese stopped what he was doing and simply held the hand for a moment. He watched Finch's face until the other man let out the breath he was holding and looked up at him.

"It's going to be a challenge for me to type if it's too tight, John."

"Should have thought of that before, _Harold_." 

Reese finished with the gauze and turned Finch's hand over to examine the palm and exposed fingers. There was a little redness creeping up the index and forefinger, but they should do alright without a bandage if Finch kept them clean.

"You weren't here and I didn't want to wait," Finch said. He flexed his fingers and sighed. "I won't do it again."

"If you can't wait, go out and get something." He held up a hand to forestall the argument that Finch was about to make about how it wasn't always convenient or advisable to leave work in progress when they were in the middle of a case. "Or call me and I'll pick up something on my way in."

Finch folded his arms and frowned. "Let me see if I understand what you're suggesting: you want me to ask you to do a _coffee run_ on your way in from risking your life in armed combat saving our clients' lives rather than risk another scalding if I try to use the espresso machine by myself?"

"Yes," Reese said. "That's exactly what I'm saying, Harold." 

He cut a glance at the machine in question. One of their recent clients -- a restauranteur who was being stalked by an old lover and would have been killed without their intervention -- had foisted it on Reese when he wouldn't accept money. For what felt like the hundredth time he wished he hadn't had a car that day so transporting the thing would have been impossible. But Finch had been listening in and threatened to send a car to Reese's location to get it. The level of enthusiasm that came through Reese's earpiece had been a surprise -- Finch could have bought a top of the line model for the Library any time he wanted -- and the restaurantuer had looked at Reese sympathetically, like he suspected his saviour had tinnitus.

Oh, well. It was here now. And it seemed to have a vicious streak a mile wide, at least where Finch was concerned. He simply couldn't be trusted to operate the thing without having something go catastrophically wrong. Hot water for tea came out in a rush and scalded him; he left common sense at his desk and grabbed the portafilters at the super-heated base rather than by the handle; he frothed milk too long and it exploded. Reese could go on. 

By contrast, the coffee machine performed its function perfectly for Reese. If it hadn't been determined to torture Finch he would have admitted his love for the way it dispensed shots of espresso that had just the right amount of crema and steamed two percent milk into delicate pitchers of bliss that turned resulting drinks into liquid ambrosia. And Reese didn't even like milk, usually took his coffee black.

Clearly, he thought, the machine was evil. It had to go. 

"If you're thinking about getting rid of it, Mr. Reese, the answer is no."

"You're a mindreader, Finch." John smiled what he thought of as his most intimidating, 'fuck with me and regret it' smile, but Finch only sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Hardly. We've been through this before. It's convenient. I'll get the hang of it eventually. It stays."

"It's evil, it's trying to kill you, and you can't be trusted to stay out of its way. It should go."

"Don't be ridiculous." Finch stalked away from Reese and started to wipe down the already immaculate information board.

"Harold, it's a menace."

"I am the employer, therefore I determine what equipment we bring into the workplace. It stays, and that's final."

Equipment? Workplace? _Final_? Reese wanted to laugh but something nagged at him.

"Finch, you've never gotten a decent drink out of that thing, only burn scars. It doesn't make sense to keep it."

"But it does make great coffee. You said so yourself the day you installed it." Finch still had his back to him but Reese could tell he was cradling his scalded hand. He said a silent prayer for strength.

"Who cares? I can get coffee anywhere."

"But not _great_ coffee. You never said anything about the quality of your coffee before."

Reese closed his eyes. He agreed with Finch: this _was_ ridiculous. 

"It's not worth it."

"It is if it's something you like, John." Finch turned to face him. His expression was a little too earnest for a discussion about coffee. "There aren't many things you like."

Reese did laugh then. "That's not true."

Finch went back to his desk, sat, and started typing with his one good hand, which initiated a pause so long Reese thought the conversation was over until Finch murmured a sullen "Do what you like, then," and retreated into whatever he had been working on before the espresso machine almost covered him in boiling milk.

Reese hung his head and stalked over to the machine. He cleaned up the remnants of Finch's failed attempt at coffee and set everything in their little kitchenette to rights. This was it: he was going to yank the damn thing and be done with it. 

He put a hand on the plug at the back and the sound of typing in the room behind him stopped, then started up again, and if Reese had ever in his life wondered if it was possible for one-handed typing to sound angry and resigned, well. He would wonder no longer.

Could it really mean that much to Finch? Reese shook his head. Not possible.

Or was it? He had learned that Finch attributed some importance to a variety of things about Reese that only a few people, including Jessica and his own father, had ever bothered to care about. But he had already saved Reese, had given him a job -- why take responsibility for more, even if it was only an insignificant detail like indulging him with good -- no, great -- coffee?

He blinked and heard Jessie's voice in his head, using the tone that meant she was smiling because he had missed something obvious. 

_Oh, John, why do you think?_

Reese took his hand off the plug and stepped back to focus on their small array of cups and saucers. He took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. When he finally picked up one of the cups his hands weren't shaking at all.

"What were you trying to make here, Finch?"

A few minutes later Reese sipped liquid ambrosia from a tiny porcelain cup and sighed. Seated next to him, Finch pondered a drink of his own. He had a milk mustache.


End file.
